Unless I Can't Resist It
by Miss Poisonous
Summary: Missing year. Robin is foraging for a magical ingredient in the woods when he comes across a beautiful woman in the middle of a lake. The woman bears a striking resemblance to the Queen, but something about her seems far more tempting than usual…
1. Chapter 1

**Thanks to Addicted1, my resident muse-stoker and lovely beta :) **

Based on a post on Tumblr (you can find me there at how-wonderful-lifeis).

"_I generally avoid temptation, unless I can't resist it."_

- Mae West

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><p>Robin has been in the woods for hours when he spots the clearing in the distance. He has been walking all day, in search of the last ingredient the Queen needs to re-cast her protection spell over the castle, and quite fancies the notion of a brief sit down on a warm stone and a chance to refill his water skin.<p>

He reaches the last line of trees and takes in the scene before him. A deep, satisfied smile spreads over his face. There, growing around the edge of a large boulder near a small lake is a whole cluster of straight, single-stemmed plants, with large leaves and tiny purple flowers, just like the Queen described. Sentinel root. At last.

Robin scans the clearing out of habit before stepping out of the cover of the trees, a precautionary arrow notched in his bow. He approaches the boulder slowly, his eyes darting all around the clearing, and he is convinced now, he is alone.

He kneels to inspect the plants, remembering what the Queen said about the large leaves hiding long, needle-sharp thorns. She had also lectured them about the importance of pulling the single stout root whole from the ground. _"Or it will be of absolutely no use to me."_

He rolls his eyes at the memory, feeling a flare of annoyance even now at the way she'd pointedly directed her warnings at him. Like he was bound to botch the simple task of finding a plant and bringing it back in one piece. Even hours of walking through the woods had been insufficient to calm the tension he always felt after being around the Queen.

Oh, she hadn't been happy about his inclusion in the little foraging party – despite him being easily the most experienced forager of them all. And honestly, he hadn't been thrilled about taking orders from the haughty Queen, either. But Snow White had enlisted his help, with her sweet round face and imploring eyes, before he'd known who needed the plant or why. And once he'd agreed, it became more about one-upping the Queen than the indignity of being her errand boy.

And it seemed the Queen had passed on at least a little of her stubbornness during her stint as the Princess' stepmother. So Snow White got her way, and the four of them – Snow, her Prince, Red, and himself – had set off after breakfast.

They had split up in order to cover more ground and agreed to return to the castle once they had three of the roots in their possession, or by sundown. The sun is low in the sky already, so Robin is delighted to have come across this bounty. He takes pride in his work, even if it is only hunting and gathering, and he would have hated to return empty-handed. Not to mention the insufferable smirk he would've been met with when the Queen realised he'd proven himself useless.

He smiles at the group of plants standing to attention around the boulder. Looks like he'd be proving otherwise. And as a matter of fact, he rather enjoys seeing the Queen's face when she's on the receiving end of an insufferable smirk – namely his.

He sets his bow down and removes his knife from its sheath, gingerly slicing through the stem of the first sentinel flower. He wagers he has at least an hour of daylight left, plenty of time to (carefully) dig out three roots and be back at the castle before sundown. He might even be there to have dinner with Roland before the boy goes to bed, a thought that makes him smile.

He has successfully removed one whole root from the ground when he notices the silence. Where before there was the sounds of birds, the hum of insects, the rustling of leaves, the gentle lapping of the lake in the stony shallows, now there is not a single sound. The air seems unnaturally hushed, like every living thing in the nearby vicinity has either made itself scarce or is holding its breath.

Robin stills in his work, uneasy, listening. Total silence. He looks around him. Nothing has changed from the scene he first came upon, but something feels decidedly different. He glances down towards his bow.

He spots movement out of the corner of his eye and straightens, looking towards the lake. He sees nothing but smooth water and motionless trees, not even a breath of wind to disturb the branches. But – no, the water is not so smooth after all. He sees ripples on the surface now where it was previously glassy and still. The edge of the lake swells ever so slightly higher up the beach, as though encouraged by some invisible undercurrent. Probably just a fish jumping, or a change in the tides, Robin tells himself, attempting to shake off the eerie feeling that has come upon him. But the hairs on the back of his neck are standing on end and gooseflesh is rising along his shoulders, and even though he turns his eyes down, his senses are on full alert. Life in the woods and as an outlaw has taught him never to ignore his instincts, and when his neck prickles like that, it's a pretty damn strong one.

He's bending down, working his knife back into the dirt, and, yes, that time he definitely saw something. Definitely not a fish.

He gazes out at the lake for a moment without rising from his crouch, seeing nothing. Clearly whatever is out there prefers to approach unseen. Well, Robin is no stranger to a little game of Grandma's Footsteps, never failing to make Roland shriek with laughter when he whirls around and catches the boy inches before his little hands reach Robin's back. It just so happens that Robin is quite adept at pretending to be unaware when in truth he is anything but.

Once more he looks down at his work, swivelling slightly on the balls of his feet and turning one shoulder so his back is mostly to the lake. He keeps his body relaxed and his stance casual, but is listening hard, waiting for any subtle sound that will alert him of the other's presence. And he hears it then, the distinct slosh of something moving in the water. In one movement, he is standing facing the lake with his bow taut and an arrow aimed.

He is so surprised by what he sees that his breath stutters in his throat and for a moment all he can do is gape.

The Queen is standing in the middle of the lake, submerged up to her waist and staring directly at him with those dark, dark eyes. Her hair is wet and loose about her shoulders, topped with a strange crystal headpiece. She is clad in a bejewelled white dress that clings to her like a second skin. The saturated fabric lends nothing to decency, and he is only half aware of his gaze roaming over her torso, taking in her firm, full breasts, the outline of a nipple…

He catches himself, snaps his eyes back to her face. A small smile plays about her lips.

He lowers his bow.

"Your Majesty?" he questions, his voice coming out hoarse. He is perplexed. When had she got here, and why? She was supposed to be back at the castle with everybody else, for her safety, and she had been when he left, wearing leather trousers, a heavy, feathered cape and a scowl; nothing like this delicate, ethereal vision in front of him now.

"Hello," she smiles, and her voice is like music. He takes a step forward without really meaning to.

"M'lady, what – what are you doing here?"

"Waiting," she replies.

His heart pounds. His bow is by his side now.

"Waiting for what, your Majesty?"

She simply smiles at him, bends slightly and scoops up some water, tips her head back and pours it over her face and hair, more water than she should have been able to hold, rivulets of it running down her chest. She sighs, stretching her neck languidly, gathering her dripping hair over one shoulder.

Robin is transfixed. She is bewitching, utterly gorgeous. He has never really looked at her like this; objectively he could see she was beautiful, but now, he can't take his eyes off her.

He is at the water's edge and he doesn't remember taking those steps, but he doesn't care because she is coming closer now too. He drinks her in, every extra inch of her that is revealed as the water shallows out, her hips, her legs; he is enthralled by her.

"Regina," he breathes when she is an arm's reach in front of him. He doesn't think he has ever called her by her name before, except perhaps in his dreams.

She is still smiling, that beguiling little smile that he has never seen her wear before, and maybe that should give him pause, but he can't find that anything gives him pause in this moment except the idea that he might not be allowed to touch her. Because he suddenly wants to, desperately.

"Yes, Robin," she says, soft and soothing and seductive all at once. She has never called him that either. She reaches out a hand and caresses his cheek. He closes his eyes, his mind foggy, his entire being focused on that gentle touch. He doesn't notice the splash as he lets his bow fall into the water.

"I've been waiting for you," she whispers. She's threading her fingers through his hair now and the feeling pulses through him. He watches his own hand move towards her face as if from outside his own body. He's terribly afraid she'll stop him, doesn't know what he'll do if she does (the Regina he's coming to know would never let him get this close, he knows, would have pushed him away by now, something in him knows this, maybe this is another dream because somewhere deep down he can feel she's different, not real), but can't stop himself from reaching out anyway.

His fingers make contact with her skin and he is lost to her. He traces her jaw, cups her cheek, weaves his fingers through her luscious hair and grasps the back of her neck. All his breath leaves him in a shuddering sigh. She is a drug and he has had his first fatal taste.

"What do you want from me?" he asks, just wanting to please her; he'll do anything to please her.

"Kiss me," she says, and even though it is he who has her in his grip, somehow it is he who is pulled forward to her lips.

He kisses her. It is intoxicating, blinding, there is nothing else but the glorious feel of her lips. Soft and determined against his, he always thought she'd be fierce and demanding in bed, but he's never thought of her that way, but maybe that's because he wouldn't allow himself tolisten to his own thoughts. She's all he can think of now, she's all there is, the taste of her mouth, her tongue against his, her hands clawing his chest; her waist, hips, back, backside under his eager hands. He is drowning in her.

She pulls away and he moans in longing, already reaching for her again, can't bear to be apart from her. She must have walked them backwards at some point because water laps at his hips as he tries to get closer. Her hands are still at his chest and she stops him.

"Do you want me?" she asks.

"Yes," he gasps, because God, yes, he does, he wants her, and this is the first time he's realising it but he knows he's felt it before.

"Good," she says, and then they are kissing again, and he is drowning.

He is drowning.

He can't breathe, there is water everywhere, in his nose and mouth and throat and her lips are no longer on his but her hands are digging in to his shoulders, tight, painful and he can't shake her off. He opens his eyes. They are underwater, and she is looking at him, but her face is suddenly terrifying, vicious and hungry, like she's a shark and he's a helpless herring. Something is terribly wrong, he's realising too late, he tries to break free but her fingers are cutting into his flesh, drawing blood. He cries out and sucks in even more water. It hurts, he's panicking now, he has to do something or he's going to drown, he kicks out at her, smacks hard at the arms holding him down. It works, she lets go, and he's weak, but he can swim, he can make it to the surface. He's in pain, his shoulders are stinging and his lungs are burning, his head feels like stone and wool all at once, but he kicks upwards, how did they get so deep, he doesn't know, he kicks upwards until something snags at his foot, her hand, or a weed, he can't get loose, he's going to die, he's going to die…

Somewhere in the distance he is aware of a pulling sensation at his clothing. He is too weak to fight, he's thinking of Roland, but then his head breaks the surface and air rushes excruciatingly into his lungs. He is hauled out of the water by some unseen force, spluttering and hacking, his chest on fire. For a couple of minutes he just rolls on the ground, clutching his chest, groaning in pain through his uncontrollable coughing. His vision is dark. Maybe his eyes are screwed shut. He's not entirely sure.

Slowly, he comes back to awareness. Starts to feel the stones he's lying on, the chill of his wet clothing. He blinks, looking around cautiously.

Prince David is standing there, looking down on him with concern. He is wet too, fully dressed and soaked through just like Robin. His sword is in his hand. His bloodied sword.

Robin sits up suddenly, wincing as the movement pulls the wounds on his shoulders. He looks around almost frantically, and his heart lurches when he sees the figure in the white dress floating in the shallows, the cloud of red in the water around her visible even from where he sits.

"Robin," David says, coaxing but firm.

Robin looks at him again, then back at the woman in the water. He looks closer. Her hair, fanning out around her head, is not the dark hair of the Queen. It's a pale blonde, almost white. Robin closes his eyes, shakes his head. He's bewildered, he feels like he's been yanked from sleep mid-dream and is still trying to work out which reality is the real one.

"Are you all right?" David's voice again.

Robin opens his eyes. Once more, he looks at the dead woman in the water. She is not Regina, he is sure of it now. The fog in his brain is slowly clearing. He looks back to David.

"What happened?" he croaks, the words like gravel in his raw throat.

"A siren," David says.

"A siren?" Robin repeats, struggling to order the memories in his head. He remembers coming across the lake, digging out a root, a strange feeling in the air. The Queen in the water.

"They are occasionally found in the lakes and oceans of these parts," David says, sitting himself down next to Robin. "Dangerous creatures. You don't know you're in their thrall until it's too late."

"So they lure you to the water to drown you?"

"Yes. They are shapeshifters, and they have the power to see inside your mind, see the person you truly desire, so they can use that to draw you in. Their voices carry hypnotic qualities, and once they touch you, well… They become very, very hard to resist."

"You sound as though you speak from experience," Robin says. His heart is pounding, the siren took Regina's form, it chose Regina to lure him in, and it worked, he can still remember the way she looked in the water and the memory sends a jolt to his groin.

"I do," the Prince says grimly. "I came across one years ago, before Snow and I were together. It transformed itself into her. I remember fighting against the pull, but it still almost killed me."

"How did you know I was here?" Robin asks. When did he get here, is what he wants to ask, did he see the siren wearing the Queen's face before he pulled Robin from the depths? He's pretty sure the fastest way for such information to get back to Regina would be through David's wife, whom the Prince is sure to tell everything.

"I didn't," David answers. "I was on my way back to the castle when I saw the light reflecting off the lake in the distance, and I was thirsty."

"Rather impeccable timing then."

"So it would seem."

"Where is the Princess?" Robin asks, trying both to distract David and work up the courage to ask him how much he saw.

"I walked her back to the castle a few hours ago," David replies. "She gets tired more easily now, with the baby. I tried to tell her she didn't have to come, but she wanted to, for Regina –"

Robin stiffens at the mention of her name, then immediately checks David's face for any sign that he noticed. The Prince is watching him, smiling slightly, his eyes kind, but Robin can't decipher the extent of his knowledge. Frustrated and shaky with adrenaline, he heaves himself to his feet. The claw wounds in his shoulders throb. He touches his fingers to them, finding them tacky with blood.

"Do you want to…" David begins, then trails off awkwardly. Robin looks at him.

"Uh, wash yourself off?" he finishes, waving a hand half-heartedly in the direction of the lake. Robin gives him a hard look, met with a sheepish smile.

"Fair enough."

He starts walking ahead of Robin, then stops at the boulder when he spots the sentinel flowers.

"Oh good!" he exclaims. "I haven't been able to find any."

He crouches down, taking the handle of Robin's knife still sticking out of the ground. Robin scowls and hopes David doesn't think he's going to take all the credit. Robin may have required saving from a deadly siren, but he _did_ find the flowers first.

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><p>It is dark by the time they return to the castle, and although there are still a handful of people sharing food and drink in the dining hall, Robin is exhausted, his day of walking, forced hypnosis and near-drowning having taken its toll. He leaves David and Snow to a reunion worthy of several days' separation and goes directly to his chambers.<p>

He is hoping to clean and dress his wounds before anyone sees them – to avoid any awkward questions – but when he enters his room, Roland is there, waiting to fling himself into his father's arms. Friar Tuck too rises from his chair by the fire in greeting, and frowns when Roland says,

"Papa, you're bleeding!"

"A small scrape or two, my boy, not to worry. I just need a bath and I'll be good as new."

"What was it, Papa?" Roland asks, eyes lighting up at the prospect of hearing about his father's adventures. "Were you in a battle? Did a beast get you?"

"It was a – creature – yes," Robin says.

"A big one, with sharp teeth?" Roland prompts eagerly. "Was it scary?"

"A smart one," Robin says, carrying the boy, already in his nightshirt, over to his bed. "With sharp claws. It tried to trick me, lure me in to a trap. I was a little scared." And then, because David is not there to refute it, and because he likes being the hero in his son's eyes, "But I defeated it."

"How, Papa? Tell me how!"

Robin smiles, pulling the covers up to Roland's chin and carefully settling in beside him for what promises to be a largely fictional bedtime story.

"All right, but first say good night to Tuck."

Roland obeys, and for a moment Tuck looks like he might protest his dismissal, eyeing Robin's shoulders with concern. But Robin fixes him with a look, hoping to convince him not to worry his son, and it works. The Friar bids them both good night and departs without any questions.

Once Roland is asleep, Robin undresses gingerly, peeling his shirt away from the wounds, leaving his trousers – the pouch full of roots still attached to his belt – in a heap on the floor. He bathes himself, wincing as he washes his shoulders. He doesn't have any bandages to hand, so he sleeps shirtless, hoping the gashes are shallow enough to heal in the open air.

He sleeps fitfully, despite his exhaustion, his dreams full of dark hair, soft lips and sharp claws.

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><p>It is at breakfast the next morning that David and Snow White find him. Roland is holding court at the table of Merry Men, in full dramatic monologue about what he would do if he were attacked by a bunyip (which is what he's decided got the best of his father), and Robin is heading to the kitchen for more porridge.<p>

"Robin," David greets once they've intercepted him. "Are you all right? You didn't stay to eat with us last night."

No, he didn't, which was why he was on his way to get more breakfast.

"It had been a long day," he says instead. "I was tired. And I wanted to see my son into bed. I hope you'll excuse me," this he directs to Snow.

"Of course, as long as you're well," she replies. She doesn't look entirely convinced of that, however, particularly when she notices his shoulders. He can feel his shirt sticking once more to the open lacerations, and he's sure spots of blood are starting to show through. He will have to ask someone to bandage them after breakfast.

"And what of the Queen?" David asks.

Robin tenses, meets David's eyes carefully, tries to keep his expression neutral. He still doesn't know what the man saw, what he may or may not have shared with his wife.

"What of her?"

"Well, I believe you are still in possession of the sentinel roots," David says, gesturing to the pouch on his belt. Robin had dressed on autopilot that morning, hadn't even remembered it was there until now. "And Regina is not exactly known for her patience."

Snow is trying and failing to hide a smile.

"Oh. Yes. Wouldn't want to keep Her Majesty waiting. Where do you suppose I might find her?"

But they don't have to answer, because he sees them both start guiltily at the sight of something behind him (and the looks they exchange make him both nervous and suspicious). He feels a pleasant tingle on the back of his neck that leaves him in no doubt as to who just entered the hall. Slowly, he looks over his shoulder.

Sure enough, Regina stands just inside the doors, her chin raised, looking for all the world as though she's preparing for battle. She meets every distrustful and unfriendly look she gets head on, glaring every one of them down, radiating disdain and, Robin thinks, defensiveness. Snow excuses herself and goes across to meet her, David following behind, leaving Robin free to observe the Queen as the three of them converse.

She is wearing a figure-hugging, deep blue dress, long sleeved but off the shoulder and devastatingly low-cut, her cleavage on spectacular display. Her hair is twisted and pinned elegantly at the nape of her neck.

He's always thought her beautiful, he realises. He just never allowed himself to dwell on it before. But he's dwelling on it now, and she is _stunning_. His eyes rake over her body, letting himself appreciate her fully for the first time – the real Regina in any case. The siren was a poor substitute indeed, and this dress isn't nearly as see-through.

And unlike his encounter with the siren, right now his mind is all too clear. He notices every detail of her, not just her beauty but the protective way she carries herself, the glare on her face she tries not to let soften around Snow, the bold way she puts herself on display to ensure it's on her terms, not others'. The great pain she is making such an effort to hide. Each observation sends a lurch to his stomach. How long has he been subconsciously logging details about this woman?

He is interested, intrigued by her, finally recognises that he has been for a while. He wants to know her, wants to see the side of her again that he glimpsed when they broke into her castle, wants the real her in every sense of the word. She infuriates and fascinates him and he can't get her out of his head, and the siren has made conscious a realisation that he can't force back into subconsciousness.

He wants her. He wants the Queen, wants Regina. He wants her beyond her barbed defences and walled-up misery, wants her open and honest and unrestrained, wants to kiss her and touch her, run his hands and mouth all over her body, make her gasp and shout and writhe for him, _he wants her._

And now Charming is waving a hand in his direction and she looks over, sees him staring at her like a feeble-minded fool and heads straight for him, annoyance clear in her countenance.

"Were you attacked?" she demands abruptly.

That he was not expecting. He fumbles for words, noting with exasperation that Snow and Charming are hovering in the background, watching him and Regina in a maddeningly obvious manner.

"Were you lost in the woods you claim to know so well?" Regina continues, clearly growing impatient with his stuttering. "Or was digging up a few roots a more monumental task than I had anticipated?"

Robin is confused, unsure how much she knows or what she's chewing him out for, and is also finding her lips very distracting, so the best he can think to say is,

"M'lady?"

"I was unaware that it took an entire day and night for four people to find one plant. If I had known you would find it so taxing, I would have gone myself."

Her glare moves to Snow White at this, clearly still resentful at being told what she could and could not do, even if she _is_ a personal quarry of the band of flying monkeys. Snow looks startled and immediately tries to pretend she wasn't looking.

"Apologies, m'lady," Robin says. "I didn't mean to keep you waiting."

He removes the pouch from his belt and hands it to her.

"I hope these are sufficient."

She opens the pouch and looks inside, seeing more than enough roots for her spell. She looks back at him, considering.

"I thought I made it clear that time was of the essence when it came to casting this spell," she says, less bite in her tone now, almost curious.

"You certainly did," Robin concedes with a nod. "But I confess I was weary on my return last night, and I had a little boy demanding a bedtime story, after which I was quite worn out."

He swears he sees the corner of her mouth turn up, and it makes him want to draw a bigger smile out of her, a real smile.

"Your bedtime stories must be quite melodramatic if they drain your energy so quickly," she says, scornful, but with a teasing quirk of her eyebrow that draws him in like a helpless moth. He can't resist the small step he takes towards her.

"I'm always sure to pace myself when it comes to storytelling," he assures her seriously. "Perhaps the pressure of completing a successful mission for Her Majesty was simply too much for me."

His dips his head gallantly to lighten the sarcasm of his words. She is watching him shrewdly, searching for any signs of mockery or malice.

"Good," Regina says finally, drawing herself up. "Then I need not concern myself with you the next time I actually require something done in a timely fashion."

She looks him over one more time, and he notices her eyes lingering over the blood spots. He is determined to be casual.

"_Were_ you attacked?" she asks again, less forceful this time.

He smirks at her.

"Just a scratch."

Their eyes lock for a moment, two, and he feels a low down throb at the intensity of it. Then she is throwing a glare at Snow and Charming, turning on her heel and stalking away.

He feels out of breath.

Yes, he is certain he prefers the real thing.


	2. Chapter 2

**_Sorry for the wait on this guys. Enjoy, and please let me know what you think!_**

**_And a warning: this is not good, clean fun, if ya know what I mean._**

**_Thanks, numerous and exultant, to Addicted1 as always for consult, you marvellous beta and encourager, you!_**

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><p>Robin is bored out of his mind.<p>

So, naturally, he is thinking about the Queen.

He is in the middle of taking an inventory of all the castle's weaponry. He figured it needed to be done; with the various skirmishes they'd had on the way to the castle and in the weeks they'd been there, nobody was certain how many of anything they still had, and the armouries in the castle itself hadn't been touched in years. It's a thankless but necessary job, time consuming and tedious, and alone in these quiet, isolated little rooms, his mind is definitely wandering.

Since the incident with the siren, Robin has fallen into his desire for the Queen like it was a lifelong habit. He is actually surprised it took him so long to realise what he felt for her. Quite apart from unsettling him, it actually explains a lot of things. Like why, despite his annoyance at her rudeness, he found himself affected in the basest of ways at the tone of her voice when she insulted him. Or why, when he was alone at night with his imagination, all he could see was her beautiful face scrunched in unbearable pleasure, crying his name as she writhed above him.

It has made life in the castle rather more distracting, though by no means less enjoyable. He takes a different kind of pleasure in riling her now: eagerly anticipating the fire in her eyes when she glares at him, the way she always, always rises to the bait.

With her never far from his mind, he simply can't bring himself to concentrate very hard on counting yet another dozen shields. Of course, the armouries he set out to catalogue are in a shambles, and it has taken him all day to get to this one, the final of three. So, yes, his mind is wandering, and yes, the way Regina looks when he's fought her for the last word, _again_, is hovering tantalisingly somewhere between memory and fantasy. The fantasy coming into play when he wonders how those arguments would go if they were alone when they had them…

"Thief."

Uh oh. That was definitely not in his imagination.

He glances up. There she stands, eyeing him with a disdainful look on her face. She is once again wearing the sinfully tight leather trousers that leave absolutely nothing to the imagination, except how he would go about removing them. They are topped with a looser-than-usual black silk blouse with elaborate flared sleeves and strings at the neckline that have been left loose. The blouse is cinched in at the waist by an embroidered red and black half-corset.

Robin presses his lips together and tongues the roof of his mouth.

Regina is smirking now; clearly his ogling hadn't been subtle. He returns the smirk. After all, what does he have to lose?

"M'lady," he greets, going back to the list of weapons and tallying the last of the shields before looking back at her.

"It's Your Majesty," she corrects him.

"Of course. What brings _Your Majesty_ here? Nothing to be found at this end of the castle but a lowly thief and some severely disorganised weaponry."

He's perfectly aware she must have come here specifically to find him. She was the one to – very reluctantly, and with a lot of sarcasm – give him this room's location when he posited the idea of taking inventory. Only a select few of the castle's inhabitants know where all the armouries are: an insurance against both invaders and traitors. As it turned out, even Snow had been surprised to learn of this one.

"I know that," she says dismissively. "It is _my_ armoury."

She surveys him then, that strange, appraising glint in her eye again. He keeps his expression politely interested. She doesn't offer any explanations for her presence, though. Instead, she stalks towards him, watching him carefully, her lips curled in a half-smile that somehow still manages to show her teeth.

She comes to stand next to him, ostensibly looking at his scroll, but he can feel her scrutiny. She's watching him for some sort of reaction; that much is clear. What reaction it is she's waiting for, he's not sure.

"A thief, taking inventory," she says eventually, her voice low and conspiratorial. "How very against the grain."

He meets her gaze, shrugs in that nonchalant way he knows aggravates her. Something sparks in her eyes and she leans closer, says, like she's telling him a secret, "Not who I'd pick for the job," scrunching her nose and brows in that absurdly attractive way she does.

"Is that why you're here, Your Majesty? To supervise me?"

"Do you need supervising?" she challenges.

"Well," he shrugs again, turning back to his scroll and starting to mark down the number of swords on the wall, "I can give you whatever answer I like, but if you trusted me enough to take me at my word, we wouldn't be having this conversation now, would we?"

This, he thinks, would be the point where she usually walks away. She is fairly predictable in the things she refuses to talk about, especially (he thinks) with him. And she does walk away, but only as far as the pile of arrows in the corner, picking up the edge of the blanket covering them between two fingers and looking under it. She straightens, looking around the room at the clutter.

"Is _this_ all you've managed to achieve?" she says, deliberately scornful. She's stalling, he realises, and is intrigued to find out why.

"There are three armouries," he reminds. And, because he can't resist baiting her just a little, adds, "And the other two were in a similar state to this one."

"Well, I didn't leave them like this," she says immediately, not missing the dig. "My knights spent more time worrying about weapons than I did. I had no use for such trinkets."

"Indeed. You can be quite deadly all on your own, Your Majesty."

Her eyes snap to his, and there's that searching look again. He smiles at her, raising his eyebrows innocently.

"Yes," she says slowly. "I can be… quite deadly."

Her voice has gone all low and husky and he feels his cock stirring in response. Suddenly he's not sure this is a wise game to be playing with her, not in these close quarters, not when her effect on him can become quite apparent, quite quickly.

"Unless, of course, your opponent happens to be a flying monkey," he says, attempting to steer the banter back into lighter territory. She bristles, and he fights a smile.

She strides back towards him, all fierce indignation, and God, sometimes he just wants to grab this woman and kiss her senseless. Well, most of the time, actually.

"I did not need you to rescue me," she hisses, once she's close enough to throw the words in his face like a curse. He is losing the battle against the smile, his palms raised in surrender.

"I did not consider it a rescue. Merely… timely assistance."

"I didn't ask for your assistance."

"You never do. But I'm afraid I shall likely continue to give it."

She draws back slightly, that look on her face again like he's a puzzle she can't figure out.

"Why? What do you hope to gain?"

"Must I have an agenda? Perhaps I simply like to be useful. Perhaps I simply like _you_, and would prefer you remain whole and unharmed."

Something darkens in her eyes then, and she smiles, like this was what she'd been expecting to find when she came looking for him all the way in this hidden little room. There's something dark in the smile, too, a twisted sort of satisfaction from getting something she didn't actually want.

She steps closer, reducing the space between them to a hand's breadth or two. He doesn't want to back away from her (quite the opposite), but that smile tells him he should.

"Oh, I bet you do _like_ me," she says, gravel and honey in her voice. She very obviously looks him up and down, and he can't help but swallow. He can only hope she doesn't see the very physical effect she's having on him. They are in dangerous territory now, in more ways than one. But the storm in her eyes is the one he's actually concerned about.

"You're a thief," she says, "and a man. You always have an agenda."

She takes another small step forward. There is almost no space between them now, and despite knowing this isn't a good idea, despite knowing she deserves better than what she thinks he wants, he is helpless to the desire rising hot and potent in his belly and chest and groin. He is half-hard already, and if she gets any closer, she will feel it and then he's not sure he will have it in him to convince her that he doesn't just want her for a quick fuck against the wall.

He steps away, large steps, crouches down and opens the small wooden cabinet full of quivers even though he'd only just started on the swords.

"My only agenda today, m'lady, is to complete this inventory in time to have dinner with my son."

He glances at her over the cabinet door when she doesn't respond, sees her wide-eyed, surprised expression. He turns back and pulls out an armful of quivers, depositing them on top of the cabinet for counting. He's quite happy to give her a moment to recover from the discovery that someone is unwilling to take advantage of her.

When she speaks again, her voice makes it clear that this is her trump card – this is what she believes will back him into a corner.

"You never did mention what injured you on your scout for the sentinel root."

He turns swiftly, abandoning all pretence of counting the quivers.

"Why don't you ask the question you really want to know, m'lady?"

She looks startled again, but quickly masks it.

"Snow let a little something slip about what happened on that expedition. She's always been terrible at keeping things to herself."

Robin is not surprised at Snow and David's lack of discretion. He raises his eyebrows in an expression of mild interest. Regina is trying to play games with him, and he's not going to let her.

"Did she now? Should I be honoured that you're coming to me for corroboration?"

Her brow furrows in annoyance. He is not making this easy for her.

"I know something attacked you."

He nods.

"Yes, something did."

She huffs in frustration.

"As Queen, it is important that I know every – "

He cuts her off, impatient with all this pussyfooting around.

"I think you know what attacked me, _Your Majesty._ And because I believe you know the answer to your purported question, I can see two reasons why you would seek me out especially to ask it," he says. "One, you believe what Snow told you is true, and you hope to humiliate me by forcing me to admit to it. Though, if that was indeed your aim, you might have chosen a more public venue, involve more witnesses in my humiliation."

She opens her mouth, completely taken aback but her anger rising in automatic response to his forcefulness. He barrels on before she can find the words to strike with.

"Two, you _don't_ believe what Snow told you and are expecting me to deny it, in which case I really must question your powers of observation."

She is silent for a moment. She has a stunned look on her face that he doesn't think he has ever seen before. He feels a bizarre sense of pride at being able to surprise her. Then,

"You were seduced by a siren wearing my face."

He grins at her. Caught. Can't find it in him to be upset about it.

"So you _do_ believe it. I do hope you weren't counting on the humiliation."

His casual demeanour seems to baffle her even more, and she frowns at him.

"You aren't ashamed of wanting the Evil Queen?"

Her voice has lost that dark, seductive growl, and without it, she sounds… young.

Robin softens, feeling a yearning for her that has nothing to do with his libido. He takes a step towards her, just one. Her eyes are wide and uncertain.

"No. No, I am unashamed of desiring a beautiful, fascinating woman, Regina."

Her mouth opens on a silent gasp, and he can't help it, his eyes are drawn straight to her perfect lips. It's out in the open now, he desires her and she knows it. He figures the next move is hers.

They remain in something of a stalemate, just staring at each other. The storm in her eyes has retreated, and he is having trouble reading her.

Finally, she makes a little movement with her arms, flaps them out slightly from her sides, says,

"Well, we're alone, thief. This is your chance. Take it."

But her eyes drop down, just briefly, just for a moment, and he knows that whatever the next move is – if there is one – it _needs_ to be hers. Even if she doesn't know it.

He shakes his head, gently.

"I will take nothing you are not willing to give," he tells her. "Though I hope you won't mind if I continue to admire you from afar. You are quite the stunning creature; I confess I'm rather taken with you."

He smiles at her, and seemingly without her permission, a smile of her own blooms in response. A powerful flood of warmth goes through him; his grin widens and he's sure he looks like a fool but he can't bring himself to mind all that much.

"And if I'm willing to give more than that?" she asks, her courage apparently back, as the question is accompanied with a flirty raise of one eyebrow.

He feels it again, that pull, like with the siren but _more, better,_ it draws him to her and he has no intention of fighting it. They are toe-to-toe when he whispers,

"Then give it."

And she does.

She kisses him, most decidedly, a firm press of her lips against his, grasping his tunic in her fists. The momentum of her body stumbles him back into the cabinet. The edge of it hits the small of his back and he lets out a grunt. She seems to mistake it for a noise of protest and pulls back, looking terrified, as though convinced that in the last seven seconds he's changed his mind and become disgusted by her.

He smiles softly, strokes her hair away from her face and kisses her again, slow and sensual. It takes a moment, but she relaxes against him, sighs into his mouth. It's a tiny sound, barely audible, but it sends a shock of desire through him. He grips her hips tightly and kisses her harder, runs his tongue along her bottom lip. She opens her mouth eagerly, meeting his tongue with hers, sliding it into his mouth forcefully, heatedly. He groans at the feeling. As it turns out, her lips feel completely different to the siren's after all. Regina's are softer, more insistent, more fervent. Somehow, even harder to resist. His head is spinning, he's forgetting where he is, losing awareness of everything except the woman pressed against him. Her kiss is heady and addictive, but instead of dulling him, it brings a certain clarity, an almost unbearable sharpness, everything about her and them and their kiss overwhelming his senses. He has never felt this kind of passion, this joy, this fierce _feeling_ before. He has never wanted anyone more than he wants Regina right now.

He wraps his arm around her waist, splays the fingers of his other hand between her shoulder blades, pulling her flush against him. She smiles against his lips and presses her body in a little harder, her breasts soft against his chest. She trails a teasing finger up the outside of his thigh, his side, his chest, seizing a handful of his collar and once again changing the pressure and pace of their kiss. Her tongue is in his mouth again, her lips and teeth hard against his, her other hand clenching and scratching in his hair, and she is – God help him – making these _whining_ noises in the back of her throat. He can feel every one. Both in his mouth and other, more southward places. She is going to be the death of him.

But what a way to go.

His hands wander, never fully grasping at places he thinks he needs permission to grasp, but teasing, caressing the back of her thigh, squeezing when she rotates her hips firmly into his, grazing the side of her breast and making her shiver (he makes a note of that in his brain, wants to memorise every part of her body and every way he can touch it that makes her shiver, arch her back, whimper and scream). He claims her delicious mouth again and again until they are both panting and so very, very aroused.

He is hard for her and knows she knows it, can feel him when she does that insistent twist of her hips into him, he is hard and aching and _God,_ he wants her. Her fears have been assuaged by the effect she is clearly having on him. Her confidence growing, making her bold.

He jerks violently when her hand suddenly squeezes his erection, tearing his mouth from hers with a wet smack. He means to say something about how they should stop, that his interest goes further than a quick romp in a dark corner of the castle, that she deserves more and so does he. He had imagined (idealistic and naïve, she'd call him) spending hours in a bed with her, mapping out each other's bodies, worshipping every inch of her, bringing her up and up over and over again until she was shaking and pleading and grasping the sheets. But she is smirking at him, this temptress, her fingers dancing around the outline of his cock, and he is powerless – completely, utterly – to resist.

He groans her name and her smirk widens.

"Is there a problem, thief?"

Her voice is nonchalant but she looks like the cat that ate the canary. He exhales in a rush, threads his fingers through her hair, runs them down her neck and over her shoulders, pushing the neck of her blouse aside to get at the smooth skin underneath.

"Yes," he growls, pressing his lips to her pulse point. She tilts her head with a soft sigh, giving him room.

"And what might that be?"

"I," he kisses the side of her neck, "am trying to be a gentleman." A gentle suck where her neck meets her shoulder. "And you," he pushes her blouse further out of the way, exposing one shoulder and giving her collar bone a little nip. She sucks in a breath. He makes another mental note. "Are making it very difficult, m'lady."

"Passing blame now?" she says haughtily, if a little breathlessly. "Typical outlaw."

"Well deserved, I should say, in this case," he murmurs between kisses.

"Oh?"

He detaches his lips from her neck long enough to raise his eyebrows at her.

"You are perfectly aware of how irresistible you are," he says. "False modesty doesn't suit you."

She shakes her head, frowning and looking oddly chastised.

"Most people would say the Evil Queen is more than resistible."

"You are far more than just a Queen, evil or otherwise," he counters.

She appears surprised, genuinely, guilelessly so. He can't help but smile softly at her.

"Evil is not a word that springs to mind when I look at you," he murmurs, hands in her hair once more.

"And what is?"

"Stunning." He leans in closer, letting his lips brush her ear. "Sexy. Stubbornly hostile. Powerful, protective, magnificent. Audacious. Brave. Reckless. Frustrating. And of course, I stand by irresistible."

"Enough," she says, kisses him to shut him up, and he's pretty sure she's blushing.

"There is more to you than an outdated label, Regina," he tells her when they break apart again. She, for once, doesn't meet his eyes, instead focusing on the hands that are currently occupied in tugging at his belt. She seems oddly uncomfortable, anxious to get off the subject, and her very best distraction efforts are not unaffecting. He attempts to still her questing hands. That gets her to look at him.

"Such a gentleman," she mocks. "You're not really going to pretend you don't want me?"

"I think," he inhales sharply as she squeezes him again, "it's fairly obvious that I do."

He blows out a sigh, aware that what he's about to admit could very well be an invitation for more mockery and derision.

"But I wanted to do this right. I wanted to treat you as you deserve. I wanted to… woo you."

He refuses to be embarrassed for it, so he keeps his eyes fixed on hers, though he can't deny the nervousness in his stomach. A rejection from her at this point would disappoint him more than he'd care to admit.

She stares at him for a beat or two, eyebrow raised, seeming to be waiting for the punchline. When he gives her a mildly self-deprecating smile and shrug, her sceptical expression relaxes and she looks almost… touched. But she still shakes her head.

"No."

"No?"

"I'm not going to be wooed. I'm not going to be romanced. I'm not… I'm just too… I can't."

She's going for emotionless, he can tell, that hard, royal mask firmly in place, but she can't shutter those expressive eyes, and there is something vaguely desperate in them now. Like she _needs_ this. And she needs to not talk about it or even think too hard about it. Being wooed clearly falls under those categories. His heart sinks a little. This isn't about him at all.

"But I do want you. Now."

He purses his lips slightly and bobs his eyebrows, as though she's just given him a vaguely interesting fun fact. She makes the same face back. Not fooled.

She leans in and kisses him again, languidly running her tongue over his lips, his teeth, the roof of his mouth, rolling her hips into his. He groans and buries his hands back in her beautiful hair. Little minx. She knows exactly what she's doing.

"Now," she hisses.

"Well," he half-groans, her pelvis never stopping in her attempt to get him even more unbearably hard, "at least let us go somewhere a little more comfortable."

"No. Here."

He chokes.

She smirks.

"Here or nowhere."

They stare at each other for a long moment. Her eyes are glittering. Her gaze nothing short of a challenge. Then, slowly, deliberately, she reaches out a hand, presses it firmly against the very hard bulge in his pants. He grits his teeth and doesn't move. Somewhere along the line this has become a battle of wills; one they both know he'll lose, but he can't let her win quite that easily. She thinks it's a secret, that she enjoys him challenging her, but it's not, not to him. He stares her down. There is laughter in her eyes as she begins to massage him with squeezing fingers, rotating the heel of her palm hard against him, unfurling an intense roll of pleasure low in his gut. His eyes fall closed at the sensation, just for a second, but it's long enough. Her victory grin is wide, and he was right, she _does_ enjoy this. He has his suspicions as to why she has shied away from a bed, why she wants this hard and fast and meaningless, but that doesn't mean he isn't going to savour her. She wants an escape, a diversion, well, he's going to give her the best diversion of her life. His qualms are gone, and so is his hesitance. As it please Her Majesty, after all.

And he intends to.

He lets out a growl and seizes her by the arms, spins her around and into the cabinet, the force tipping it back against the wall so all the quivers inside rattle around. She makes a little noise of surprise right before he devours her mouth.

The kiss is fiery, messy and more urgent than any of the others. He digs his fingers into her waist, hikes one of her thighs up to his hip, using the other arm around her waist to hoist her up onto the cabinet, righting it on all four legs again with a thud. The quivers piled on top of it scatter to the floor. She laughs breathlessly, taking his face in both her hands and pulling his mouth back to hers.

He runs his hands up and down her leather-clad thighs as she locks her ankles under his ass. He continues his path to her hips, up her ribs to her breasts, cupping them, squeezing, his thumb brushing back and forth over a nipple through her shirt. She hums lightly into his mouth, and, encouraged, he takes one between thumb and forefinger, rolling it and squeezing with short, hard little pulses. It's that which draws the first real sound from her, a throaty moan as she tosses her head back hard enough to smack it against the wall behind her.

"_Oh_," he says on a smirk, exhilarated by his discovery. The Queen has sensitive nipples, and he is quite delighted to exploit this newfound knowledge. He pushes the neck of her shirt down further, off both shoulders, helping her extract her arms from the garment. No longer held up by anything above the half-corset, the silk slips down off her naked breasts. His breath catches in his throat at the sight of her, this goddess in front of him with her eyes down like she doesn't know she's the most beautiful woman he's ever seen.

"You are breathtaking, Regina," he tells her, caressing her hair and kissing her mouth, then her neck, her collar bone, all the way down her chest, licks the underside of one breast before darting his tongue out over a nipple. She jerks involuntarily. He laves at it with his tongue until it is glistening, then sucks it into his mouth to a sharp whine from her. Her hands find their way into his hair, massaging his scalp while he pulls at her nipple with his lips and tongue and even teeth (she makes little noises of approval whenever he gives a short, sharp nip, similar to the pinching of his fingers that he started with). His cock pulses when he realises she's taken her other breast into her own hand, plucking at the neglected nipple, and he immediately wants it for himself. He switches breasts, taking it from her fingers into his mouth and eliciting another whimper from her.

She is tugging at his belt again, more insistently now, managing to get it undone and off before he registers her determination. His trousers slip down his hips and she pushes them further down with her feet, pulling him up and off her breast in order to rid him of his tunic. He steps the rest of the way out of the trousers and is left in only his linen shirt, unable to decide whether he is more amused or aroused by her impatience. Then she takes him in her hand and any notion of amusement leaves him completely.

Her hand is small and cool and he is hard and hot and her touch has him throbbing, aching to be inside her. She twists her hand over him, down and up, running her thumb over his tip and spreading the moisture she finds there. He groans, long and low.

"Regina…"

She hums, pupils blown wide, licks her lips unconsciously. Up and down with her hand. Tightens her fist, releases, tightens.

She parts her thighs wider, tugging him hard enough to make him step into the gap. Her other hand begins to loosen the laces of her leather trousers. The message is clear.

She isn't messing around. Robin, however, has other ideas.

He pulls on the laces at her waist, peels the leather down her legs, kneels to pull the boots from her feet until she is left in nothing but the red and black half-corset with the shirt hanging off it. He wants to remove that, too, wants to see every inch of her beautiful body, but the laces of even a half-corset seem too time-consuming right now. And she is watching him with dark, vulnerable eyes, as though she is still waiting to see what will scare him away, and he thinks maybe leaving her that last bit of armour wouldn't hurt.

He places a kiss on her leg just above her knee, looks at her face, then places another on her inner thigh. She draws in a sharp breath.

"What are you doing?"

He looks up at her again, this beautiful, fierce, intoxicating woman who doesn't seem to know how to deal with a man voluntarily on his knees before her.

"I'm going to make you come on my tongue, Regina, if you'll allow me. I want to touch you and lick you and taste you until you come for me."

She lets out a tiny gasp, her eyes flicking over his face. She nods mutely.

He smiles, dips his head and drops kisses all over her thighs, deliberately teasing, seeing if he can't draw a smile or even a laugh out of her before he starts working on the screams.

She squirms under the caress of his lips, huffing through her nose when he dodges her attempts to trap him between her thighs.

"What are you doing?" she demands again, this time a lot less confused and a lot more impatient.

"Tasting you, m'lady," he answers innocently. "Why, did you have something else in mind?"

She makes a thoroughly satisfying noise of frustration that has him grinning against her skin. He darts his tongue out, lightly licking the crease where her thigh meets her hip, and she _squeaks_, her knee jerking reflexively and colliding with the side of his head. He groans in exaggerated pain, clapping a hand to the area dramatically and peering up at her with narrowed eyes. She is panting and looking thoroughly uncomposed, but she is fighting a smile and it delights him.

"If you – " she begins, but cuts herself off with a strangled moan as he finally touches his lips to her clit. It is only a kiss, a closed-lipped press against her flesh, but her body is clearly humming for the contact. She tosses her head back again and clamps her palms down onto the edge of the cabinet, bucking her hips towards him. He had thought to tease her a little bit more, a falsely innocent question on the tip of his tongue, but he finds he can't bring himself to prolong the anticipation any longer, not when she's reacting to him this way.

He flicks his tongue against her and her whole body shudders with pleasure. He licks her again, longer, slower, wetter, up and around, sucks her clit between his lips. She _moans_, guttural and eager. He is rock hard, his hips pumping back and forth of their own accord. He grips her thighs tighter, pulls her closer, buries his face between them.

He sets a rhythm, long, luxurious licks up and down her entrance, swirls and flicks of his tongue on her clit, up and down and back around. She is wet, oh, she is soaked and ready for him and he is half-mad with desire, wants her so badly, so badly. She is vocalising her pleasure almost continuously now, whimpering and moaning and sighing above him, hisses of _yeessss_ and even his name, his given name, _Robin_. She is heavenly, her taste and her smell and the sound of her voice, it all surrounds him and he is dying for her.

He circles her entrance with a finger, moaning softly at the feel of her. His finger slips right in, she is wet and hot and lets out a blissful _mmmm_ when he curls his finger inside her, stroking at that rough inner wall. Her hips are thrusting steadily into his hand, her eyes are closed, pleasured whines coming from the back of her throat, a sheen of sweat on her neck and chest. She is a vision.

He withdraws his finger and adds another, thrusting both up inside her firmly and returning his tongue to her clit. Regina cries out and clutches at his hair. He laps at her steadily, pumping his fingers in and out of her and she is gasping his name urgently now, over and over, her fingers scratching at the wood of the cabinet. He manages an encouraging groan against her, and then she stiffens, clenches, an ecstatic cry bursting from her lips as she comes hard. He eases her through it, stroking her gently through her high, murmuring to her how _stunning_ she is, _that's it, come for me, you are amazing, Regina._

When she stops shaking, when she's leaning back against the wall, eyes closed, still panting lightly, he kisses a line down her shoulder. He's so aroused he can barely think, can't stop his pelvis from rocking into her, but he doesn't know how far she wanted this to go, and he won't assume. He kisses her, light, gentle kisses over her naked skin until she pulls his head back, drags his lips to his and shoves her tongue in his mouth, passionate, needy.

"You really are waiting for my permission, aren't you?" she husks once she releases him.

He doesn't know what to say, is pretty sure he's lost the ability to speak at this point, just nods, his gaze burning into her.

"Your foolish honour," she sighs, but her expression is soft. It amazes him sometimes, her ability to make compliments sound like insults and scorn sound like admiration.

He simply raises his eyebrows at her, an honest question. Unable to stop rolling his hips against her thigh. She gives a little laugh, a half-disbelieving little laugh. She reaches between them, takes his cock in her hand, gives it a squeeze that has his eyes rolling back. Watching him, she guides the tip of him through her wetness. He groans. Every nerve ending in his body seems to have rushed to his cock, he is already afraid he's not going to last long at all.

"Yes," she whispers, and that is all the permission he needs to bury himself inside her.

They both moan at the feeling, Robin letting out an emphatic _fuck_ and dropping his forehead to rest on her shoulder. He stays still for a moment, breathing in and out, letting her adjust to him and reigning in every inch of his control to not come on the spot. He is balls deep in the erstwhile Evil Queen and nothing has ever felt as _God, good, so good_ as this.

He draws out slowly, then back in.

"You feel so incredible," he breathes into her neck.

"_God_, _Robin_," she answers.

He slides in and out again slowly, deep, firm thrusts, but she is shaking her head, fingernails scrabbling at his back through his shirt.

"_Robin,_" she moans again, and he will not soon forget the way his name sounds falling from her lips in the throes of pleasure. "Robin, _harder_."

_Minx_, he thinks, _temptress, goddess_.

"Yes?"

"_Yes_, harder," she insists, digging her nails into his ass, thrusting her hips up, taking him deeper. He groans. Her eyes hold his, lustful and so very certain. "Fuck me like you mean it."

That's one order he can't refuse.

He takes her hips in his hands, squeezing the flesh under his fingers, and slams into her, _hard_, as requested. She shouts in pleasure, her head falling back, and he is half-gone already. He_ fucks_ her, leg muscles tight, hips pounding into her, the swords on the wall behind bouncing and rattling on their iron pegs. Her hands twist in his shirt, wrenching the fabric, tearing it down the middle so it is hanging off him by the sleeves. He gasps out a laugh in between grunts and moans, and her own cries of _yes, unh, Robin, fuck!_

He is so close already, doesn't think he can hold out much longer, reaches down with one hand and makes small, tight, wet circles on her clit. Her cries become delirious, wordless, her nails scratching at his arms, his shoulders, attempting to claw through the remnants of his shirt, and then she is exploding beneath him, clenching, back arched, face screwed up in ecstasy. Seconds later, he is crashing over after her, hips jerking erratically into her with a long groan.

They remain joined, Robin half-collapsed over Regina, just trying to catch their breath and let their heart rates slow down. Her legs are still loosely tucked around his waist, her head flopped back against the wall, her hands sliding from his back to rest on her own thighs. Eventually, she starts to shift, letting her legs fall from around him, straightening her posture, pulling her blouse back up to cover her breasts. He takes his cue from her, easing his softening cock out of her and stepping back. He picks up her pants from the floor and hands them to her, reaches for his own. For a moment there is only the shuffling of material as they redress themselves. It has the potential to descend into an awkward silence, and Robin can't bear the thought of that, not after this, not after finally getting to share some semblance of intimacy and openness with her.

He steps in close again, for once not waiting to see if he has her permission, kisses her lips soundly but briefly.

"Well, I suppose I should add 'capable of exhibiting extraordinary physical force' to my earlier list of adjectives," he muses, plucking at the torn edges of his shirt with a wry grin. She meets his eyes for the first time since he pulled out of her, smiling smugly.

"Oh, I'm full of surprises."

"You certainly are," he says lowly, not quite managing to keep the (temporarily sated, but always present) desire from his voice. He doesn't want to hide it, particularly, aside from the fact that she seems more comfortable with this playful banter than she did a moment ago when they were both still mostly naked, their enjoyment of each other quite evident on his cock and between her thighs.

"It's quite deceptive of you, hiding such brute strength in these little hands." He takes said hands in his, making a show of measuring them against his own. She snatches them back indignantly.

"My hands are not _little._"

He barks out a laugh.

"Compared to some things, m'lady, they most definitely are."

She snorts. Actually snorts.

"You think very highly of yourself."

"I was talking about my _hands_. Though I do appreciate this insight into the path of your thoughts."

He grins at her, grabbing at her hand again to plant a kiss on it before releasing it.

"Besides, I'd say any high opinion I may have would be one that is now shared, unless I am grossly misinterpreting your previous, rather loud communications."

He raises his eyebrows suggestively. She rolls her eyes.

"Exactly what I wanted, to further inflate your ego. Not that it needed it, you've always had a remarkably big head for a thief."

"Can I help it when the woman I am hopelessly attracted to has just finished informing me that she does, in fact, know and rather enjoy using my first name?"

He smirks; she glares.

"After all, my desire for you _did_ almost get me killed. I think it's fair to say I'm pleased that it is reciprocated."

She opens her mouth (lovely, luscious thing that it is), and for a moment he wonders if she's going to deny it, say she doesn't want him, that she only sought him out because she had an itch she knew he'd be more than willing to scratch. She surprises him, though.

"And how did I compare?" she asks, dark eyes intent, the smirk on her lips downright playful. He delights in it, though it takes him a moment to catch her meaning. When he does, he chuckles.

"Even if the creature hadn't shredded my shoulders and almost drowned me, nothing could compare to the Queen herself."

He means to flatter, clumsily perhaps, but then he's still navigating the depth of his feelings for her, surprised sometimes at how off-kilter they make him. But something closes in her expression, hardens, and there is danger in her tone when she replies,

"Yes, I imagine it's quite the conquest for you."

Not danger for him, he doesn't fear her, but she gets this look sometimes like she is standing on the edge of a precipice, chased there by self-loathing and with only bottomless despair to fall into. It's a look he's starting to recognise. For her, there are two options: either he is ashamed of wanting her, or sees bedding her as some sort of laudable victory that has earned him bragging rights. He burns at the thought of whoever treated her like that in the past to have her so convinced.

"Regina," he says. "I will mention this to no one if that is what you want. If you wish it, we can go back to insulting each other tomorrow, and I will keep my hidden knowledge that Your Majesty secretly appreciates my charm as a balm to my wounded soul."

He smiles to let her know he is teasing, and she smiles back, almost laughs. It warms him.

"You never insult me," she says, which is true. He shrugs, tugs her to him, wanting her closer. She resists, extracting herself, slipping off the cabinet. She reaches for her boots, making moves as if to leave, and he watches her for a moment before giving in to his increasing urge to stop her. He trails his fingers up her arm and down her side. She jerks reflexively at the touch and he wonders fleetingly if she's ticklish.

"Don't go," he says.

She turns her head to look at him, a myriad of emotions playing across her face. Confusion is forefront. He aches to think that she finds his desire to be around her so hard to understand. Presses a light kiss to her shoulder through the silk blouse.

"You want me to stay?" she questions, her voice small, soft, and so very young.

"Very much."

He wraps his arms around her waist, gently, encouragingly, and she lets herself be pulled back into him. He tries not to nuzzle her neck and breathe in the scent of her hair too obviously.

"You can oversee the inventory-taking," he suggests lightly. "I've given it some thought, and I do think it would be best if I had some supervision."

She turns in his arms, stepping away, clearly not comfortable with being held that way.

"Can't trust a thief," she smiles.

She's back to insulting him the next day, studiously scornful in her every word, but sometimes he catches a glint of that same look in her eyes, the one she wore when she sat on the floor in the hidden armoury and smiled at him as he tallied arrows, and it makes him smile in spite of her words, in spite of who might see. And sometimes her lips twitch up in return.

And he thinks it's a start. A very good start.


End file.
